Chapter 27

Chapter 27

The handwritten sign read: "Speak No Monkey – CONFIRMED!" and had been splashed diagonally across the ball poster in the common room.

What?

The buzz was palpable, and I had to fend off about six people wanting to buy tickets so I could find out what the hell was going on, because this was the first I'd heard about it.

Debbie was pissed off when I found her in the sixth form study area. "I phoned your house five times. Your mum said you were out, so I assumed you were coming over. Where the hell were you?"

Where I was: holding hands with Rob West on the roof of Shop 'n' Save.

Where I suddenly realized I should have been: at a ball committee meeting at Debbie's.

"I'm … so sorry. I completely forgot," I said.

Debbie shook her head in disbelief. "OK, well. We've had some news. Speak No Monkey have agreed to play."

Time stopped. "What? Really?"

She nodded. "It's confirmed. They left a message with the receptionist yesterday."

"My letter actually worked?" A wide smile spread across my face. Oh. My. God. Oh, thank god. Oh wow. It had worked. I'd done it. This was going to send the ball into the stratosphere, and we'd sell every single ticket now.

But whereas I was ready to dance with Debbie and Adam around the common room, whooping and cheering, Debbie seemed to be all business this morning. "Hence the added signs to let everyone know. I've already been in touch with their manager, and Dad is sorting their rider out and all the contractual bits."

She sniffed dismissively and got back to the essay she was working on. I stood there. I'm not sure what I was waiting for, except … the ball was my thing. My idea. I was leading it. It was me who had written the letters to the band. I'd persuaded them. OK, I'd forgotten about one meeting, but did that warrant Debbie just taking it all out of my hands? I'd really wanted to make that announcement. And now she was acting like it was all her doing.

"Rather than stand there, why don't you help Adam confirm arrangements with the catering people?" she said, without looking up.

I strode away, slammed some stuff in my locker and flopped down on a chair.

I was pissed off.

But, in my heart, I also felt like I'd let them down. I'd even written a reminder about that meeting in my Filofax.* My head was just somewhere else entirely, and, literally, it was constantly just—

Flashback: the roof. Rob holding my hand. His gentle words. The fizz when I met his eyes. His warmth. Him.

But, actually, maybe Rob had been right when he said I shouldn't "tank my grades" just because of him. I couldn't just throw everything away. I'd already glimpsed Rob today, acting like normal in the common room, just doing his thing, like last night had never happened and wasn't the most stars-in-his-eyes best thing ever. How could he just carry on, after that? Well, apparently he could. And that's what I needed to do too. That fact made even more clear to me by:

Enter Beth: on a mission, two cups of coffee in her hand (she never made me coffee – this was serious).

Location of this intervention: the sixth form common room, but, to be on the safe side, she suggests we sit outside, on the low wall by the humanities block.

"What is going on with you?" she asked.

"Nothing. Why?"

"I've worked it out, Jamie."

"Huh?"

"I've seen you coming and going in the library. Your chats with Mrs C, and then one of them with Rob West, of all people. Then you bizarrely stick up for him in English—"

"That wasn't bizarre; I genuinely feel he was wronged."

"And he's hanging back for you afterwards and you chat to him then."

I shrugged. "He's an OK guy."

She rolled her eyes. "Is he? Well, it all seemed very strange to me. And, meanwhile, there's hysteria building…"

"Is there?"

"People keep coming into the library, asking for a copy of Wildflowers of Great Britain. Once would be weird enough, but ten requests in one lunchtime? Why does everyone want to read this book? I ask myself. So I look it up on the database. See who's taken it out to try and track it down. And I see your name and Rob's name on there."

"Oh."

She blew on her coffee and sipped it. "Are you seeing each other then?"

I froze.

"I see," she said. "And you know who his dad is, of course?"

I looked down at the ground.

"He's met up with my dad a few times. The pair of them together would turn your stomach with their staunch defence of what they laughably call ‘family values', which is just bigotry masquerading as virtue. Jesus, Jamie. When did you start to enjoy playing with fire?"

"It just happened," I muttered. "But also, nothing much is happening. We're only talking. It's nothing. Nothing to tell. Which is why I hadn't said anything to you. Also—"

She held her hand up. "I won't say a word. Of course I won't. I'm well aware of the stakes here."

"There are no stakes if nothing's happened."

"Nothing's happened yet," she corrected.

I sighed.

"So, you have a secret … and so do I," she said. "If it would make you feel better, I'll tell you mine?"

I looked back up at her.

"I asked Dan to the ball, like you suggested," she said, a smile playing on her lips. "He said yes."

"Yeah? He did? Really?"

She nodded, grinning.

God, I'm not proud to admit it, but I felt a pang of jealousy.

(Note to editor: this will be the final straw in my unlikeability as a protagonist, won't it? Best to lie?)

Because, look, maybe I had Rob now. Is that what you're thinking? Except, I didn't really, did I? My jealousy wasn't that Beth had Dan, and I also wanted Dan (although Dan was sweet and I did like him, which, OK, did confuse matters), but more that the chances were, this would work out for her. And it never would for me. So she would get what she wanted, and I never could.

"He's … a really sweet, lovely guy," I said.

"I know." She considered me wryly. "He's got a soft spot for you too."

That made me smile.

And made me feel a bit sad, for some reason.

"But … obviously my dad can't find out. So, I suppose we're in a similar position to you and Rob—"

"I'm not sure there is a ‘me and Rob'," I said quickly, panicking about how he'd made me promise no one would know.

"OK, OK, but you see what I'm saying?"

I nearly did. I nearly said "Yes". But, actually, our situations were different. She had a problem with her dad. One person, making life difficult. Rob and I had a problem with the whole world. That she imagined we were in the same boat annoyed me a bit. It was like she didn't get it at all. But what was the point in saying anything? It was Beth. She wasn't being deliberately insensitive – she just didn't understand. I vaguely nodded, keeping it neutral, not rocking the boat (my speciality), because having a row with Beth wasn't what I needed right then.

"Me and Dan are meeting up only at his house," she continued, "and we're not going to be obvious around school; it's just easier that way, you know how gossip flies around this place. I was just thinking … if you and Rob ever wanted to come round – just the four of us—"

"You haven't told Dan about me and Rob?"

"No. Stop panicking. And I won't. Unless you want me to. But we're all in the same boat, Jay—"

I bit my tongue. She really had no idea.

"… and much as I hate the analogy, isn't there honour among thieves?" She took another sip of coffee. "Think about it, that's all."

So, after my annoyance had worn off, or rather, after I'd pushed it aside, I did think about it. I didn't write it down, it felt too dangerous, but the fantasy world inside my head was rich and vibrant, down to the finest details…

The farm was in the middle of nowhere. There were no other buildings nearby and certainly no other people. If you wanted to hide, this place was perfect. Dan's parents were out, and were not due back until tomorrow, so we had the place entirely to ourselves. Arriving individually to avoid detection, once the four of us were inside, the curtains were closed, the doors locked, and we were finally safe.

Nobody could find us here.

Nobody would know.

Away from the eyes of the world, and the expectations of family and friends and enemies, we could all relax.

The wind howled outside. The rain lashed down. The storm was welcome, it felt both like an extra layer of protection against prying visitors, but also created the circumstances for a cosy evening. Dan lit a fire, drinks came out, popcorn was made in the microwave, there were tubes of Pringles, and some frozen pizzas went in the oven. But best of all was that away from everyone else, away from parents and hatred and bankrupt ideals, we could all be ourselves. Rob and I cuddled up together just like Beth and Dan. He would casually hold my hand, like Dan did with Beth, and nobody cared. We watchedThe Bodyguard on VHS. As the film went on, I ended up lying against him, his arms around my waist, hands in my lap, feeling his warm breath on the back of my neck. When the famous song came on, he whispered the title track in my ear.

I will always love you.

We have many nights like that. Our own private paradise. For a few hours once a week, nobody else matters, the rest of the world doesn't exist, it's only us, and we can all be whoever we are, and nobody can stop us.

The more I thought about it, the more it was such a perfect solution. It wasn't quite the real deal, but it was something close.

I was desperate to talk to Rob.

But I knew I couldn't.

His ability to ignore me was so good, I admit I was getting worried. It wasn't that he was looking right through me or anything, it was worse, actually – he did occasionally look at me, but like I meant nothing. I wasn't expecting much, but I think I had been expecting a moment of held eye contact from time to time, perhaps a quick wink.

He was serious about no one knowing. The situation with his dad was a big deal. All the more reason for the secret get-together at Dan's house.

I found the note in my locker at the end of lunch:

Stop walking around looking so worried – I miss seeing your smile. Also, got the house to myself tonight. Fancy it? Seven-ish. Let me know that you're coming by telling Ms Wilkins in English that your favourite book of all time isThomas the Tank Engine .And that's how, after a very intense and serious discussion about social class in Wuthering Heights, and the extent to which Heathcliff's social position is responsible for the misery and conflict so persistent in the book, I put my hand up and told Ms Wilkins, apropos of absolutely nothing, that my favourite book was none other than Thomas the Frigging Tank Engine.

I felt sure she'd refer me for some sort of counselling.

That boy was making me do things.

I was under his spell.

And I bloody loved it.

*Leather! A present on my sixteenth from Mum and beloved by young execs in the 80s. I was never quite on trend, always a few years behind – plus ?a change!